


Don Juan...Clavin?

by RowenaZahnrei



Category: Cheers (TV)
Genre: Barfly, Beer, Dating Anxiety, Drug Trial, Gary's Olde Towne Tavern, Gen, Hypnotism, Melville's, Prank Wars, Psychology, Self-Esteem Issues, Social Anxiety, St. Patrick's Day, Team Spirit, bar rivalry, bar trivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-25 17:40:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6204625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowenaZahnrei/pseuds/RowenaZahnrei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cliff volunteers for Lilith's university-sponsored drug trial and ends up caught in a fierce competition between Lilith and Frasier, with some unintended consequences.  Meanwhile, the Cheers gang confront Gary's Tavern in a St Patrick's Day prank war.</p><p>COMPLETE STORY! Please review! :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own "Cheers" or any of the show's associated characters. Please don't sue me or steal my story. Thanks! :)

Don Juan...Clavin?  
By Rowena Zahnrei

 

So, this man walks into a bar...

He hung his coat on the rack and shot a glance at the wooden Indian by the door before raising his hand in greeting.

"Hey, everybody."

"Norm!" the bar patrons chorused.

The lanky, blond bartender put down the glass he'd been polishing and snatched up a beer mug, which he filled from the tap and set before the man just as he settled his beer-barrel frame onto the corner bar stool.

"Hey, Mr. Peterson," the young man said. "How's it going?"

"Like a Chevrolet Vega...chugging uphill in winter," Norm grunted, and emptied the mug in one swallow. "Could I have a beer here, Woody?"

The young bartender smiled and refilled Norm's mug.

*******

"And I'm telling you right now, I'm not going to stand for it. Not this time."

The bar's manager, an attractive brunette in a no-nonsense blue business suit, charged out of her office and marched up to the bar. She was followed by the bar's senior bartender and former owner Sam Malone, an ex-baseball player with a long face and a mane of meticulously styled brown hair.

"Come on, Rebecca," Sam said. "It's not like we were the ones who issued the challenge. If we don't respond, we're gonna look like wimps."

"No!" Rebecca insisted. "St. Patrick's Day is one of our busiest days of the year, and I'm not letting you and your gang of aging adolescents threaten our potential profits with another one of your ridiculous prank wars with Gary's Olde Towne Tavern. In fact, I'm going to call Gary right now and tell him this childish competition is off for good. Cheers is a business, not a playground, and I am a professional."

"A professional kill-joy."

A short waitress with curly dark hair slammed her empty drinks tray on the counter next to Norm.

"Every year since I can remember, Gary's made fools out of us," she said, her voice as sharp and piercing as her dark eyes. "This year, we have a chance to finally get our own back, and L'il Miss Howe-itzer here wants to call it off!"

"Well, Carla, at least I'm not petty enough to let Gary bait me into another of his transparent traps," Rebecca said. "He takes advantage of this infantile competition to undercut us and boost his own sales every year on nearly every major holiday. This destructive nonsense has got to stop, and I'm the one to end it."

She strode behind the bar and picked up the phone.

"What's the number?"

"Oh, it's right here on this postcard Gary sent," Woody said, handing her a large, rectangular photograph.

Rebecca glanced at the picture, and her eyes widened. A peek at the writing on the back, and she slammed the phone down so hard it jangled.

"That creep!" she shrilled. "That sophomoric cretin! A friendly challenge is one thing, but this!"

"I did think that image of Gary and his cronies mooning us through the tavern's window was a bit much," Norm commented over his beer mug.

"Yeah, and those limericks on the back," Carla said with a smirk. "Who would have thought Gary could find such a creative rhyme for 'Rebecca'? And the one he did for Sam, there, was truly artful."

Sam smiled.

"So, Rebecca, what do you say now?"

Rebecca's eyes smouldered.

"Kill 'em," she said, and marched back to her office.

Sam, Woody, Carla and Norm shared a high five.

"Better watch out, Gary," Carla said. "This year, St. Patrick's Day is ours!"

"Yeah!" Woody cheered. "So, uh, anyone got any ideas?"

A beat of awkward silence was broken by the muffled sound of bickering outside the door. The bickering grew loud and clear as the door opened and a well dressed, professional couple stepped into the bar. The man was tall and balding with broad shoulders and a high forehead. The woman was straight and slender with black hair pulled into a bun so tight it seemed to preclude any trace of expression from creasing her snow-white skin.

Still arguing, the pair struggled out of their long coats and marched toward a table at the back of the room.

"Frasier, I don't give two hoots about your outdated Freudian claptrap," the woman was saying in a flat, resonant monotone. "I'm running this trial, and if you have anything negative to say you can fill out a form and submit it to the comment box in the main office like everyone else."

"Outdated-!"

The man gaped, his wide mouth opening and closing like a hungry bass. Recovering, he said, "Well, let me tell you, Miss Behaviorist: the human psyche is far more complex than a rarefied system of impulse and response! We are not flatworms!"

"It's Dr. Behaviorist to you," the woman retorted. "And as for your simplistic and flawed caricature of my research-"

"No, no, I won't hear it!" Frasier said, rising to his feet. "There happen to be layers to our lives, Lilith. Nuanced shades of shadow and color your stark, unimaginative mind cannot seem to fathom!"

Lilith stood to meet his attack with one of her own.

"Pansy," she said.

"Robot!" Frasier roared.

"Hey, guys, guys!" Sam said, stepping in before the pair could come to blows. "Settle down. What's all this about, anyway?"

Lilith turned her calm features toward Sam.

"I have volunteered to head a research study to determine the effects of a new anti-anxiety medication. If effective, this medication promises to work wonders for those afflicted with moderate to severe self-esteem issues."

"One pill cures all," Frasier scoffed. "Any reputable psychiatrist will tell you it takes years of-"

"I never said it was a cure-all," Lilith interjected. "I merely put forward the hypothesis that, if effective, this new drug could potentially serve as an aid to behavior modification techniques designed to help a patient learn to break the cycle of self-destructive habits and accompanying self-demeaning attitudes that-"

"These anxieties are not mere habits to be corrected!" Frasier retorted hotly. "You're talking about deeply ingrained defenses learned in early childhood to-"

"OK, OK, enough of this egg-head scream-fest," Carla broke in, shoving her tray between the bickering pair. "Why don't you both do us a favor and order something already? You can't talk while you're swallowing."

Frasier and Lilith stared at each other for a long, charged moment, as if daring the other to sit down first. Finally, they both sank slowly back into their chairs at the same time.

"I'll have an Evian water," Lilith said coolly, as if nothing had happened.

"Perrier," Frasier countered. "With lemon."

Carla shook her head.

"Gee, pick something daring why don't you," she said, and went to fill their order.

A moment later, the door opened again and a mousy little man in a colorless mustache and a blue-grey postal uniform shuffled into the bar.

"Hey, everyone," he said listlessly, slouching over to the stool beside Norm.

"Hiya, Cliff," Sam said, and slid him a mug of beer. "You seem kinda down today."

"Yeah, buddy," Norm said. "Something go wrong on your route?"

"Ah, Nahm, I don't wanna talk about it," the mailman said in his pronounced Bostonian accent.

"OK," Norm said. "Hey, did you hear that Gary-"

"It happened again, Nahmy," Cliff broke in, as if he hadn't heard.

"What happened?" Sam asked.

Cliff hunched his shoulders and sighed into his beer.

"Wait—does this have to do with that beautiful woman you were talking about the other day?" Norm said. "The one who just moved into your condo? I thought you were all set to ask her out."

"Well, I was," Cliff said. "I had everything planned, down to the last nuance. I even wrote out some witty repartee on a few, eh, flashcahds."

Carla rolled her eyes.

"Good grief, Clavin," she said. "You must be the king of all dinks. Only a pathetic nerd like you would need flashcards to talk to a woman."

"Well, if it makes you any happier, Carla, the cahds didn't work," Cliff said bitterly. "She went down to the pool after work, just like always, but when I tried to, you know, sashay up to her-"

"Don't tell me, let me guess," Carla said. "You tripped and dropped the cards in the pool, then scurried away like the skulking little rat you are."

She snorted, her voice rising until practically the whole bar could hear her.

"Get this. All his big talk, and I'll bet that woman still doesn't know he exists."

"Carla..." Sam warned.

"What?" Carla said. "If Clavin doesn't have the guts to even-"

"Carla," Sam said, more sharply. "Leave Cliff alone."

Carla crossed her arms, but relented.

Cliff moaned.

"Oh, I don't know what it is about me," he said. "I thought, once Ma moved to Florida and I had my own place, things would be different, you know? I'd be my own man. But I'm still the same tongue-tied wretch I always was. Carla's right. If I don't have the guts to even talk to a woman, I don't deserve to have a date."

"Oh, I don't know, Cliff," Rebecca said. Rebecca had come out of her office to grab a fresh pencil from behind the bar, but she'd paused to listen. "You talk just fine in front of me and Carla."

"Yeah, unfortunately," Carla sniped. "Usually, we can't get him to shut-up."

"Yeah, but that's different," Cliff said. "You guys, you're like family to me, you know? Like, eh, like sisters, almost. That woman, though...

"-Oh, what's the use," he said, and downed his beer in two swigs. "I should just accept I'm a loser and leave it at that. Sammy, another beer, if you please."

Sam took his mug, and Norm gave his friend's shoulder a comforting pat.

Lilith looked at Frasier.

Frasier looked back at Lilith, and his eyes widened.

"Oh no," he started, but Lilith had already made her approach.

"Cliff," she said. "I'm sorry to intrude, but I think I can help you. I'm starting a clinical drug trial at the university, and-"

"Ignore her, Cliff," Frasier broke in, hurrying over to the bar. "The scheme she's peddling is a mere quick-fix that's sure to be ineffectual in the long run. Now, if you wish to overcome this hurdle—a hurdle doubtless caused by a lifetime of building defenses to mask a host of deep, crippling insecurities-"

Lilith glared.

"Why are you doing this, Frasier?" she demanded. "This man is a perfect candidate for my research study."

"Precisely!" Frasier blustered. "That's all he is to you—a research candidate! Whereas, when I look at Cliff, I see a deeply layered human being. A flawed and hurting man whose only hope of sustained recovery is intense therapy over a course of-"

"Yes, yes, we're all familiar with your long-term approach—an approach that only serves to build up a worrying sense of dependence and-"

"Hey, guys, wait," Cliff said. "Uh, what's this all about, now?"

"Clifford," Lilith said. "What would you say if I told you I could help you build up your confidence and self-esteem to the point where you could feel secure asking that woman to date you? Or, indeed, any woman who caught your fancy."

"Well, I'd say, eh, what would I have to do?"

Frasier held up a hand.

"Cliff, a moment with Lilith, if you don't mind."

Pulling her aside, he started to speak, but Lilith cut him off.

"Frasier, listen," she said. "It's clear this man is in crisis, and it's also clear that we each feel we possess the necessary skill-set to provide him with much-needed help and advice. So, I propose a deal. If my method can't help him secure a date within the next two weeks, we'll see what your therapy can do. Agreed?"

"Two weeks?" Frasier scoffed. "That's a laughably short-"

He snapped his mouth shut, a sly gleam creeping into his eyes.

"And if, after you fail, I can help him secure a date, you'll admit my methods are superior," he said.

Lilith pursed her lips.

"Only if he manages to achieve that goal within the subsequent two weeks."

"And you'll take back that crack about Freud?"

She raised an eyebrow.

"Don't push it, Frasier."

"Then, we're agreed," he said, and they shook hands.

"Cliff," Lilith said, turning back to the gang at the bar. "Come with me. Before I can help you, there are a few standard forms I'll need you to fill out. I'll explain everything on the way to my lab."

Cliff looked around at the gathered faces, from Norm to Sam to Woody to Rebecca to Carla to Frasier. Frasier gave him a little nod of reassurance, and Cliff's expression brightened.

"Yeah," he said, sliding off his stool. "Yeah, OK. After all, what have I got to lose?"

"You want an honest answer?" Carla started, but Sam shook his head.

"It's all right, Sam," Cliff said. "Carla'll be laughin' out the other side of her face soon enough. I may be leavin' here a loser, but I'm comin' back a man."

Frasier raised his eyebrows at that, but swallowed any comment he might have made as he watched Lilith lead Cliff out the door and up the steps to the street.

"Well, guys," Norm said, reaching out to claim Cliff's untouched beer before Sam could dump it out. "This could be the start of a whole new Cliffie."

"As if I wasn't disturbed enough by the old one," Carla said, and shuddered. "Now, back to this prank we're gonna pull on Gary. We got less than two weeks to come up with the greatest St Patrick's Day scheme ever. Who wants to go first?"

To Be Continued...

So, what do you think so far? Reviews welcome! :)


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"I can't believe how pathetic we all are," Carla said, leaning her elbows on the bar. "It's been a week already, and still nobody's been able to come up with the perfect untopable prank to pull on Gary! We've gotta get our act together, guys, and soon, or we're gonna have to face a whole 'nother year knowing we missed yet another chance to wipe that smug smirk off of Gary's pasty mug!"

"Well, don't look at me," Norm said over his beer mug. "I do have a life outside of this bar, you know. It's not like I just sit here on this stool all day, every day, with nothing to do to pass the time but drink beer and think up stupid pranks to pull on-

"-Oh, wait," he said. "Never mind."

"What about my idea to pour creamed corn down all Gary's toilets?" Woody said. "I thought that was pretty good."

"Yeah, it's all right," Carla said. "But it's too ordinary. Too mundane. We need something special. Something that'll make those squawking losers down at Gary's swallow their tongues once and for all. But what? What?"

"Well, what about on Gary's end?" Sam said. "Any clues as to what he might be planning?"

"Not yet, Sammy," Norm said. "They've been keeping pretty tight-lipped over there, and usually you can count on at least one of those boozers to spill some beans."

"They spill any beans outta you?" Carla asked.

"Nah," said Norm. "They know we've got nothing. Refill here, Sam?"

Frasier strode over from the table where he'd been observing the conversation.

"You know, I've been pondering this conundrum, and I think I might have an idea," he said.

The gang at the bar leaned in.

"This better be good," Carla said.

Frasier straightened his jacket, the audience making him seem to expand a bit. He opened his mouth, and-

-The door to the bar burst open and a red-faced Cliff burst in. Lilith followed a moment later. She kept her posture straight, but her quick gait revealed her agitation.

"Cliff, listen-" she said.

"No, I don't want to hear any more," Cliff shouted. "I want out of this trial, and that's that!"

"Whoa, Cliffy," Norm said. "Calm down, buddy. I haven't seen you this upset since-" He paused to think. "Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you this upset. What's up?"

"It's those...those darn pills she had me take!" Cliff said, kicking at a bar stool. "She said they'd help me be more assertive. Instead, all it's been doing is getting me into fights! Fights with Ma, fights with my supervisor, even fights with that Labrador owner on my route."

Norm wrinkled his nose.

"You mean that ten year old girl? What happened?"

"I...eh...I chased her dogs, and she turned the hose on me."

Carla snorted behind her hand.

"Chasing dogs, eh? You didn't bite 'em, did you, Cliff?"

"It's not a laughing matter!" Cliff snapped, and hunched his shoulders over the bar. "I haven't been myself since I started taking those stupid pills. I want to end the trial and just go back to the way I was. A meek, dateless nobody."

Frasier took Lilith's arm and pulled her aside.

"Lilith?"

Lilith met his gaze with her cool stare.

"As it turns out, the study has revealed some unintended side-effects."

"Side-effects? Like unchecked aggression, for example? Perfect! Just what the public looks for in a postal worker."

Lilith straightened her shoulders.

"I've already removed Cliff from the study, as he requested. He should be fine in a few hours."

"Once your drugs have passed from his system?" Frasier said hotly.

Lilith averted her eyes.

"You know what this means, don't you."

"Yes, Frasier. I'll-"

"It means it's my turn," Frasier said, and strode back to the bar, leaving Lilith staring after him.

"But what about dogs?" Cliff was saying as he approached. "You get together a few of your larger breeds—your Labradors, your Dalmatians, your doberman pincers- That'd be a sure deterrent to business."

"We want to prank Gary, not maim him," Rebecca said. "Dogs are out."

"Then how about mice?" Woody asked.

"Not bad, but consider the retaliation," Carla said. "We stuff his cellar with mice, he'll stuff ours with rats. Or snakes, even."

Sam looked up from the lemon he was cutting.

"Hey, Doc," he said to Frasier, "weren't you about to tell us your idea?"

"In a moment, Sam," he said. "Cliff, a word in your shell-like ear?"

"Must be a conch," Carla snarked. "Or a quahog. Those huge ones people use as ashtrays."

Cliff's face began to redden again. Frasier hooked his elbow before he could explode.

"Can we use your office for a moment, Rebecca?" Frasier asked. "Thank you."

"Well, I-" Rebecca started, but Frasier had already pushed Cliff through the door.

To Be Continued...

Reviews welcome! :)


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

"Look, Doc," Cliff said once the door was shut. "If this is about your wife's research-"

"Quite the opposite," Frasier said. "In fact, I want you to banish that whole grotesque charade from your mind. Here, have a seat."

The psychiatrist guided the mailman to the office's battered old couch and pulled over a chair for himself.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

"Well, I—"

"Please lie down. Relax," Frasier said, snatching a pen and legal pad from Rebecca's desk and flipping to a blank page. "We've known each other for a while now, Cliff. You trust me, don't you?"

"Actually, I uh—"

"Then, let's get straight to the point," Frasier interrupted. "Now, I'm assuming – and correct me if I'm off base here – but, I'm assuming the crippling levels of anxiety you experience when confronted with the prospect of seeking and/or receiving the attentions of the opposite sex has its roots in a fundamental lack of belief in your own worth as a sexually mature man – particularly when it comes to picturing yourself in the role of 'romantic partner.' You did once say your father abandoned you and your mother when you were at the formative age of nine?"

"I, uh, may have revealed that—"

Frasier nodded and scribbled in his pad, barely listening.

"You're named after your father, aren't you," he said. "It's Cliff Clavin, Jr., am I right."

"Yeah," Cliff said. "The old man—"

"Yes, yes, which, of course, is all the more reason you would become the unwitting victim of your mother's reaction to her partner leaving the family unit, of her dominating, moralizing attitude – coupled, might I suppose, with childhood surgery to correct a minor harelip and the outbreak of severe acne during your teenage years?"

Cliff frowned and sat up.

"Hey! How did you—"

"Please, Cliff, I'm a doctor," Frasier said with a brief glance at the mailman's oily skin and mousy mustache. "The point is, these elements contributed to the fact that you were ridiculed and marginalized at every stage of your social, physical, and mental development, influencing the numerous defensive, yet self-diminishing habits and behaviors that have shaped your personality and life choices."

"Gee, I, uh… I never thought of it like that," Cliff said. "Hey, Doc, do you think, if I dropped by your office, you could—"

"No, no, it would take years to work through that swampy morass, and I don't have that kind of time," Frasier said, waving his hand dismissively. "What we want is to cut through the talk and the training and the esteem-building exercises and get straight to the results. Cliff…" The psychiatrist moved his chair closer. "Will you allow me to hypnotize you? I can do it right here and now, it'll take no time at all. And, I can promise, you will walk out of this room a new man. A confident, secure man. What do you say?"

Cliff shrank back on the sofa, his eyes darting uncomfortably toward the door.

"Uh… I don't know, Doc. I mean, hypnotism?" He made a face. "Now, I'm aware there are several schools of thought that—"

"It'll get you a date," Frasier broke in quickly, before Cliff could wade too deep into his pseudoscientific trivia. "A real date, with a real woman. And, if things don't work out, I can remove the hypnotic suggestion and you'll snap right back to normal. Or, as close to normal as you can get."

Cliff shrugged.

"Well, OK, Doc, I'll give it a go," he said warily. "But, I'm warning you, we Clavins are pretty strong-minded. I, uh, rather doubt you'll be able to actually…hypno…tize…"

Frasier lowered the pen he'd been swinging in front of Cliff's eyes like a pendulum, and sat back in surprise.

"That worked faster than I thought!" he commented to himself. "All right now, Cliff. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, Master," Cliff droned. "I hear and obey."

Frasier had to swallow a smug smirk.

"Good, Cliff. That's very good. Now, I want you to listen closely to my voice…"

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References include Cheers: The Bar Stoolie and Veggie-Boyd.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

"Dead fish in the air vent."

"Been done," Paul said over his beer mug. "To us. Four years ago."

"Oh yeah." Carla wrinkled her nose at the memory, then frowned and tapped her pencil against her forehead. "Then, hows about we squirt shaving cream on the bottom of every fancy-pants bottle of wine in Gary's exclusive wine rack?"

"Too simple," Norm said, pushing his empty mug forward for a refill, which Woody efficiently supplied. "Gary's humiliated us too many times."

"Norm's right," Sam said, looking up from slicing lemon twists. "We need a prank with real pizazz, something Gary can't just wipe off with an apron or a dish towel. Something that'll really say: we're the ones that kicked Gary's butt!"

A cheer rang out, and Carla scowled in frustration.

"OK, then," she said, "if you guys are all such experts, why don't you think of something instead of just sitting there shooting down all my ideas!"

"Hey, I offered to go over there and drain Gary's kegs before the big day," Norm said. "I can still go, if—"

"No, no, forget it," Carla said, and heaved a ferocious sigh. "You know, this really stinks, people. Here we are, with St. Patrick's Day just two days away, and we've got bupkis. I'd be embarrassed, if it wasn't all so typical!"

"Well, what about Dr. Crane's idea?" Woody asked.

"If you recall, Woody, the Great Baldini only said he had an idea," Carla snarked. "He never actually told us what it was."

"Yep," Norm said. "He just went in the office, there, with Cliff a couple days ago, then the two of them left and we haven't seen or heard from either of them since."

"Thank goodness," Carla grunted.

"Actually, I'm starting to get a little bit worried," Norm admitted. "I mean, we all saw how Lilith's experimental drugs affected Cliff. I can only imagine what Frasier's psych-talk's doing to the guy."

"Well, why don't you call him? See how he's doing?" Sam suggested, and glanced at his watch. "He should have finished his deliveries by now, right guys?"

Norm seemed to shrug.

"Yeah, I would, Sam," he said, "but it's been so nice and quiet in here lately without him around…"

"True," Carla agreed. "But, how'm I supposed to enjoy this blessed silence knowing we've still got bupkis to pull on Gary and those cretins over at the Olde Towne Tavern?"

"Hey, come on, we've got way more than bupkis, Carla," Sam said.

"Oh yeah?" Carla challenged. "Gimme a for instance."

Sam shook his head.

"Look, we've come up with plenty of ideas over the past couple of weeks. If we haven't come up with the perfect prank yet, it's probably because we're trying too hard."

"What do you mean, Sammy?" Norm asked.

"I'm saying, maybe we need to step back a bit, really look at the big picture," Sam said, wiping his lemony hands on a towel and stepping closer to the group. "See the pranks, not as individual gags, but as part of a team. If some of them seem too simple or too stupid, maybe the thing to do is combine a few, play them off each other. You know, set up a sort of a prank line-up to keep Gary reeling."

"Hey, yeah!" Carla said, starting to brighten. "That's not a bad idea, Sam. We could keep the pranks coming one, after the other, after the other, allowing no pause to let Gary catch his breath. We'll wear him so thin, before long he'll be groveling at our door, begging us to let up on 'im!"

"Well, that sounds good enough in theory," Norm said. "But, a prank barrage like that requires detailed planning, precision timing, intimate insider knowledge…"

"In other words, it's work," Al, one of the bar's older barflies, said snidely. "Which, with this group, means it's not gonna happen!"

"I don't hear you volunteering anything," Norm countered.

Al finished his beer, and straightened his battered brown hat.

"All you do is talk," he said. "But, it takes brains to pull off a decent prank. More than that, it takes gumption. The will to get up, off your butt, and get things done."

"Well, I guess that leaves me out," Norm said. "Pass the beer nuts please, Woody."

Al snorted and shuffled for the door.

"Bunch of weenies," he muttered.

"Yeah? Well, we'll show you," Carla shouted after him. "Come St. Patrick's Day, you'll be talkin' out the other side of your face, old man!"

"Bah!" The barfly waved her words away. "I'll believe it when I see it."

As he headed out, another man walked in: an entirely average Joe in a blue jacket with an easy-going air and an energetic gait.

"Hey there, everybody," he said, striding up to the bar. "I just popped in for a quick respite before heading home to pick up my date. I gotta say, after being on my feet all day, these dogs of mine are barkin' up a storm! Forget the postal dress code: tomorrow, I'm treating these aching arches to some good, comfortable sneakers. It's not like those goons at the main office watch me on my route, anyway, eh?" He laughed. "Could I have a beer here, Woody?"

"Right away, sir," the young bartender said, and the man smiled warmly.

"Eh, nice kid," he said.

"Postal…?" Norm repeated, squinting curiously at the man across the bar until his eyes landed on the postal eagle on his sleeve. He blinked, and squinted again, but the eagle was still there. "Cliffie? Cliff Clavin, is that you?"

"Ah!" the man said happily, taking his beer mug and striding over to claim a stool at Norm's side of the bar. "Trust my best pal, Nahmy, to notice my new haircut! Guy even threw in a mustache trim – no extra charge! Pretty spiffy, no?"

Norm regarded the smiling mailman, leaning back rather warily.

"Yeah, well… Your hair looks…clean," he said.

"It's weird," Carla said, shooting Cliff a similarly suspicious look. "It's not its usual oil slick. Come to think of it, your face looks different too. It's a lot less shiny. What happened, Cliffie, you finally find the soap?"

"Dear Carla, such a kidder!" Cliff said, and chuckled. He took a sip of his beer, then said, "But, yeah, Carolyn's been sayin' I should take better care of myself. You know, watch what I eat, pay more attention to my appearance. Make an appointment with the dentist. That sorta thing. And, she's right."

"Carolyn?" Norm queried. "You don't mean…the woman from your building? The one you've been pining over for the last few months?"

"Yeah, that's her," Cliff said. "And I can't imagine what I was so afraid of. I mean, once you actually get up and talk to her, she's really a very, eh, a very sweet person."

He smiled again, and his pale cheeks took on a happy flush.

Norm shifted uncomfortably on his bar stool.

"Wait, Cliff..." Sam stepped closer. "Are you telling me you've talked to this woman? As in, actually sat down and shared a conversation?"

"Well, sure, Sammy," Cliff said. "We talked for hours the other night, down by the pool. Had a few laughs… She told me about her work and her family, I told her about Ma and the service, and about how I'd been watching out for her the past few weeks, hoping she'd, eh, spare a glance my way… Funny, but, uh, she said she'd never noticed me there before then."

He shook his head, seeming a little puzzled.

"I don't know what it is," he said, "but the last few years or so, I guess I've sorta been letting myself slide a bit. I guess, maybe I sorta figured nobody looks at me anyway, so, eh, what's the point, you know? But, now I see, I had it all backwards. Before I can expect a woman to like me, I have to be able to look in the mirror and take some pride in that man I see staring back."

Carla stared, her expression slightly twisted.

"Surely you don't mean Cliff Clavin," she said.

"Yeah, that's the fella," he said. "Clifford C. Clavin, Jr., proud member of our United States Postal Service. I've got my youth, my health, a pride-worthy U.S. government job with a pension... Good friends... And now, I'm starting to think that, maybe, I've finally found a lovely, caring woman I can share it with. A woman my own age, who honestly thinks ol' Clifford C. is worth her time and, uh, perhaps even her affection. I know this, because she told me herself when I called her last night, and she consented to be my date this evening."

He smiled around the room.

"What a great life, huh guys? Yeah, I think I must be the luckiest guy on Earth. Here's to Carolyn."

He raised his mug in a toast, which the rest of the bar somewhat uncertainly returned, took a long swallow, then set his mug down and stood.

"Hey, I, uh, I gotta head out, but I'll be back later. I'm taking Carolyn out to dinner at Melville's tonight, but I've been telling her all about you good people and she's pretty eager to meet you all. So, see you around, uh, seven-ish, seven-thirty..."

"Wait, Cliff!" Norm said, as the mailman started to stride away. He gestured to the half-empty mug he'd left behind. "Aren't you going to finish your beer?"

Cliff laughed.

"Nah. In fact, I think I'll be ordering half-pints from now on. I'm, uh, planning to shrink the ol' waistline back down to regulation width," he said, and slapped his stomach. "Look good, feel good, that's my motto now. Well, see you later!"

It wasn't until the door closed that Carla's gaping mouth followed suit. She shivered and rubbed her arms.

"Ergh!" she said. "What was that? Please say I'm not the only one who feels totally weirded out by that…that…unearthly apparition we just saw!"

"No, I'm with you, Carla," Norm said. "Who was that strange man, and what has he done with our Cliffie?"

"More like, what's Frasier done?" Carla said. "I always said this head-shrinking stuff was dangerous, and now we've seen the living proof! Frasier hasn't just shrunk Cliff's head, he's cracked it!"

"Hey, wait, come on," Sam said, pouring gin and dry vermouth into an ice-filled tumbler. "Now, it looked to me like Cliff was actually feeling good about himself for once. Really good. If that's true, then Frasier's obviously done a good job."

"Listen, Sammy," Carla said, leaning over the bar. "You can't cure all the ills that are Clavin with a few hours of talk therapy. I'm telling you, there's something spooky going on here, and that egg-head shrink is behind it! You heard the way he and that Wednesday Addams chick he married were fighting over Cliff! If you ask me, those two shrinks did something to his screwball brain, something unnatural, and it's only a matter of time before it snaps back - worse than ever!"

"That sounds pretty nuts, Carla, even for you," Sam said, giving the tumbler a good shaking. "But, if it'll make you feel any better, Frasier'll be stopping in later this evening and we can ask him about it then. OK?"

"Good idea, Sam," Norm said. "Let's ask him about that prank idea too."

Carla sighed through her teeth and gave her goosebumped arms another rub.

"Oh, fine," she said. "But I just can't get that creepy movie out of my head. You know, the one with the pods that snatch people and replace them with alien copies?"

Norm snorted into his beer.

"Are you saying you think Cliffie is a pod person?"

"Hey," she said, "if the sneakers fit! I ask you, would the real Cliff Clavin ever go against any official post office dress code?"

"Eh, maybe, maybe not," Norm said. "To tell you the truth, I'm more curious about this Carolyn woman."

"Yeah, you're right," Carla said. "We've gotta warn her the moment she gets in."

"Warn her about what?" Sam said jokingly, pouring out four martinis, garnishing each with a lemon twist, and placing them on Carla's waiting tray. "That she's dating a pod person from outer space?"

"Worse!" Carla said, taking the tray. "That she's dating a Clavin! That should be enough to scare any woman!"

To Be Continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your thoughts and comments are always welcome! Stay tuned for more, coming soon! Happy 'Rounded' Pi Day (3.1416)! :)


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Lilith took a sip of her drink and went straight back to writing, her attention wholly on her notes. Frasier glanced at her from across the table and fidgeted, no longer even pretending to be absorbed in the psychiatric journal on the table in front of him.

"Lilith, darling," he said. "Might I pose a question?"

"Please, Frasier, I have been fielding questions all day," she said flatly, her eyes never leaving her notebook. "We came to this bar to unwind; to spend some quality time together in a relaxed, social atmosphere. Might I suggest you would be a happier person if you learned to leave your work at the office and use this time to indulge in other interests?"

She shot a pointed glance at his highly academic reading material.

Frasier bristled and slammed the journal shut.

"Me? What about you?" he said hotly.

Lilith looked up, her pale face blank.

"What about me?" she asked.

"You had that notebook out before we even sat down with our drinks!" he complained. "If that is not the classic sign of a workaholic—"

"Frasier, once again you leap to conclusions without first analyzing all available data," Lilith said, her voice entirely monotone. "You should know by now, I keep my lab records in my black and white notebook. This notebook is dark gray."

Frasier blinked.

"Gray…? You mean…?"

"Yes, Frasier," she said, the slightest hint of a coquettish smile tweaking her lips. "This is my personal diary…more specifically, the volume relating to my impressions of our relationship."

"And the cover is gray," he repeated. "Not black and white."

"That's right," she said, and Frasier broke into a delighted grin.

"You do love me!" he exclaimed.

"Of course, darling."

Lilith patted his hand, rather as she would a cocker spaniel's head, and turned her attention back to her writing.

From his bar stool vantage point, Norm rolled his eyes over to Paul.

"Weird couple," Paul commented.

Norm grunted his agreement and started to raise his beer mug, but stopped mid motion and set it down again.

"Hey, don't look now," he said, "but I think an even stranger pair just walked through the door."

"Evening, everyone," Cliff greeted as the door closed behind him, cheerfully guiding a petite, blonde woman in a figure-hugging yellow dress toward the bar. She looked to be in her late thirties, with large eyes and a round face. Most of the regulars couldn't help noticing that, beneath her impeccable make-up, her cheeks were colored with the same happy flush as Cliff's…or that, although Cliff was dressed in a new navy blue suit with dark shoes, he still wore white socks. "I'd like you all to meet Carolyn. Carolyn, these are the guys I've been telling you about."

As Cliff introduced her to Sam, Woody, Norm, Carla, and Rebecca, Lilith turned her gaze to Frasier. Frasier returned her gaze, his slack-jawed expression quickly morphing to smug self-satisfaction.

"Do my eyes deceive me, or has Clifford somehow managed to secure a date?" Lilith said in flat surprise.

"Your eyes are not deceived, my love," Frasier said, making a show of flipping through his date book. "Cliff is, in fact, on a legitimate date. And with—oh, what's that? More than a week to spare? Looks like it's time for someone to admit that my approach is the more effective, hm? Well?"

Lilith leaned forward slightly.

"All right, Frasier, what's the trick?" she demanded.

"Trick?" Frasier looked affronted. "Trick?!"

"Yes, Frasier, trick," Lilith repeated. "A tongue-tied wretch like Cliff who, when confronted with the prospect of romantic commitment, suffers a variety of severe psychosomatic anxiety disorders, from 'hysterical' blindness to nervous paralysis, does not just up and snag a date with a confident, attractive woman like that after one quick chat in the back room of a bar. So, tell me: exactly what did you do?"

"Do!" Frasier huffed. "I talked to him, Lilith, that's what I did! And it wasn't just that one 'chat.' I've talked to him several times over the past few days. I used my skills as a highly trained, professional psychiatrist to reinforce the—"

"And these are the good Drs. Crane and Sternin-Crane," came Cliff's voice as the happy mailman led his date to their table. "Frasier here's the one who helped me get over that, eh, that nervous shyness I was telling you about...and, uh, you know… Find the courage to…ask you out."

He smiled bashfully, and the woman's expression seemed to melt.

"That's so wonderful," she said, and turned a beaming smile on Frasier. "Then, I guess we both owe you a thank you, Dr. Crane. I was beginning to worry I wouldn't make any real friends in Boston. But, these past few days with Cliff have been, well, so magical…"

"You've gotta be kidding," Carla blurted.

"Not at all," Carolyn said, her voice bright with earnest affection. "Why, just yesterday, Cliff took me out on a tour of his route. I have to say, you haven't really seen a city until you've looked at it through the eyes of a postal carrier. Actually, it's a little known fact that—"

"Stop!" Carla exclaimed, then gasped, "Oh my God, he's contagious… I knew it, I knew this would be dangerous…"

The waitress grabbed the yellow-clad woman by the shoulders and pushed her until her back was pressed against the wall.

"What the—" she started.

"Run," Carla warned, her dark eyes wide and serious. "Run now! Get out of here while you still have a chance at a normal life!"

Carolyn looked utterly bewildered.

"Are you feeling all right?" she asked.

Sam looked like he was about to intervene but, to everyone's surprise, Cliff moved first.

"Carla, please," he said, getting between the waitress and his date. "These jokes of yours at my expense may have been funny enough for the first fifteen years or so, but it's getting a little old. Now, Carolyn and I have a reservation up at Melville's. If you promise to lay off this childish nonsense, we might just come back down here after our dinner for a, uh, a digestif."

He looked to Carolyn.

"That's the word, right honey?"

"It is according to the Sunday crossword," Carolyn said, and smiled, taking Cliff's hand in hers. "Well, it was good to meet you all. Come on, sweetie, we don't to be late."

"Don't say I didn't warn you!" Carla shouted after them as the pair headed up the stairs to Melville's restaurant. Then, she turned on Frasier.

"All right, egg-head, what did you do," she demanded, grabbing him by the tie and twisting the cloth around her fist.

Frasier put on his best insulted look, struggling to pry his tie from Carla's fingers.

"I don't see why everyone assumes that—"

"Come on, Frasier, you saw the same thing we just did," Sam said. "Cliff was confident, secure – and assertive enough to actually stand up to Carla!"

"Sammy's right, Doc," Norm said. "People don't change that much in just a couple of days. Not without a little…uh…outside stimulation, if you get my meaning…"

There was an acknowledging mumble, and Frasier's eyes widened in disbelief.

"What?" he huffed. "Just what are you all suggesting? Do you honestly think I would drug Cliff after that traumatic experience he suffered while enrolled in Lilith's trial?"

"Hmph," Lilith grunted.

"OK, maybe it wasn't drugs," Carla said. "But you sure did something screwy to that nutball's brain. And it's that Carolyn woman who's gonna get the worst of it when Cliff's brain bounces back!"

"I assure you, I—" Frasier started, but Lilith's sudden exclamation cut him off.

"Hypnotism!"

"I beg your pardon!" Frasier balked, his florid face becoming alarmingly pale.

"That's it, isn't it," Lilith said, her eyes sharpening as her certainty grew. "You hypnotized Cliff into believing himself to be a strong, confident man, thereby bypassing the actual therapy required to help him build any real confidence of his own. It's a con, a sham, an empty—"

"But, it worked!" Frasier protested. "You all saw the results! He's happier with who he is now than he's ever been in his life!"

"It's dangerous," Lilith retorted firmly. "Frasier, I must say, I'm with Carla on this one. If your implanted hypnotic suggestions, whatever they may be, should falter for any reason, poor Cliff will revert back to his old, anxiety-riddled self in less time than it takes me to snap my fingers."

She snapped in demonstration.

Frasier paled again.

"Oh dear…" he said.

"What?" Rebecca said from behind the bar. "What's 'oh dear' supposed to mean?"

"Well…" Frasier squirmed a little in his chair. "I may have implanted the order that…when I snap my fingers Cliff is to, well, forget all my implanted suggestions."

"You mean, if Mr. Clavin hears a finger-snap, he'll revert back to his old self? Right in front of Carolyn and everyone?" Woody asked.

"On the spot," Frasier mumbled. "Unless, of course, someone's there to, well, snap him back into his, um, post-hypnotic state..."

Carla looked sick. Lilith shook her head in stern disapproval.

"Hey, Sammy," Norm said, "Doesn't that maître d' guy up at Melville's have this really annoying habit of snapping his fingers when a table's ready?"

Sam nodded thoughtfully.

"You know, Norm, I think he does," he said.

"Then, shouldn't someone get up there?" Rebecca asked, looking anxiously up the stairs. "If that maître d' should snap—"

"Oh, God…" Frasier moaned, and rushed across the bar toward the stairs. "Cliff!" he shouted as he ran. "Cliff, come down, I need to talk with you for just a minute—!"

"Eh?" Cliff called back. "That you, Doc?"

"Clavin, your table for two is ready," the maître d's voice echoed down the staircase, accompanied by a loud snap…

To Be Continued…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References include Cheers: How To Marry A Mailman.
> 
> Until next time! Happy St. Patrick's Day! :)


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

10:48 AM St. Patrick's Day morning saw Sam helping the delivery guy roll fresh beer kegs into the bar's small stock room, ready to hook up to the taps for the party that evening.

Carla slouched over the bar's counter, teetering between angry and despondent.

"You know, there's always next year, Carla," Sam said, tipping the delivery guy, then checking to make sure the exertion of moving and stacking all those kegs hadn't mussed up his hair.

"That's the problem, isn't it," Carla said. "We keep sayin' there's always next year. But, 'next year' is like 'tomorrow,' Sam. You never get to see it. There's only today, and today, and today, and today… Until – suddenly – it's St. Patrick's Day again, and we don't have a single stinkin' prank to pull on Gary!"

The door opened and Woody strode in, followed by—

"Norm!" Sam greeted. "You're in early today. What's up?"

"My blood pressure, Sam," Norm grunted irritably, settling onto his customary stool.

"Ah…" Sam winced. "Then, Cliff is still…"

"He won't talk to me, Sam," Norm said, just playing with the beer mug Sam slid him. "Well, except to say he never wants to set foot in Cheers again."

"Where's he been hanging out, then?" Woody asked.

"Would you believe Gary's Tavern?" Norm shook his head and sighed. "I don't know, guys. I think it really messed him up when that date blew up in his face."

"Oh, man," Woody said, struggling to hold back a rather inappropriate giggle. "I never saw anything like that. Poor Mr. Clavin running down those stairs, and Dr. Crane running after him, shouting and snapping his fingers. Then, that pretty lady came down all worried, and Mr. Clavin just curled up in a little rocking ball…"

"It was a complete and total meltdown…" Sam said somberly and shook his head. "Man… You know, you can't help but feel for the guy. All he wanted was some confidence, you know? A little self-esteem. Was that really so much to ask?"

"For Clavin?" Carla snarked.

"Guess there really are no shortcuts in life, are there," Woody said, tying on an apron. "Oh, and speaking of shortcuts, I was thinking: What if we all went down to Gary's with electric shears, right? We order something off the top shelf, yeah, and, when he turns around to reach for it, we—"

"We are not shaving Gary's head, OK," Sam said, carefully smoothing his own hair. "Look, it's just about opening time, and Carla's right: we have nothing. I say we just let Gary have this one…you know, let him think he's got us beat. But really, it's just a ploy – to give us more time to get him next year!"

Carla rolled her eyes and pushed off the bar.

"Yeah, whatever," she grumped. "Sounds like more excuses to me…"

*******

Busy holidays tend to make time quicken its pace and, by 5:25 PM, Cheers was unusually busy. All the tables were full, the back room was crammed to bursting, and clots of laughing, drinking people clogged the paths Carla usually trod as she squeezed her way back to the bar.

"Even for St. Patrick's Day, this is nuts," Carla shouted over the live Irish folk band and happily chattering crowds, taking a moment to wipe her brow and catch her breath as she waited for Woody to refill her serving tray. "I've never seen the joint so packed! Where's Sam?"

"Oh, he went up to Melville's to see if he could bum a few spare chairs," Woody shouted back as he topped an Irish coffee with a squirt of whipped cream. He and Carla were standing barely two feet apart, yet Carla still had to lean closer to catch his words. "Miss Howe's suggestion."

"Sounds like one of her dopey ideas," Carla snarked. "Seriously, though, when did we become standing-room-only? There's something screwy going on here, I'm telling you. Gary's up to something. All these people didn't just walk in here on their own."

Al looked up from his accustomed stool, set on a diagonal from Norm's corner territory, and barked a sarcastic laugh.

"I'm not kidding!" Carla shot back. "This kind of turn out isn't normal, even for a holiday. I smell a set up!"

Norm snorted over his beer mug.

"What are you saying?" he asked. "Do you think, like, Gary paid a bunch of people to jam themselves in here? What would be the point of that?"

"Uh oh," Paul said, staring toward the door where a stocky man in a blue uniform was making his way down toward the bar. "Don't look now, but isn't that the Fire Marshal?"

"What?" Norm squinted, craning his neck to see past the crowds. "Hey, Carla? What's the max capacity of this bar?"

"Why?" she asked suspiciously as she hefted her newly filled drinks tray.

"Because I think you might have been on to something with that set-up idea," Norm said, and indicated the uniformed man with his chin. "What do you think? That guy with the fire department?"

Carla looked over just in time to see Rebecca smile at the man and pour him a beer from the tap.

"Morons," she grunted, pushing her way back through the clots of people between her and her table. "That's no fireman. Don't you dinks know a postal jacket when you see one?"

Norm and Paul leaned sideways, straining to get a clearer look.

"She's right," Norm said. "There's the postal eagle on the sleeve."

"It's weird," Paul said. "I never really saw a postman here off duty, apart from Cliff."

"Yeah..." Norm took a thoughtful swig of his beer. "Still, that was a pretty close call."

"You think, maybe, Gary is planning something?" Paul asked.

"I don't know," Norm said. "But I don't like it, just sitting here, waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"Got a plan?"

"Just this," Norm said, and waved Woody over.

"Yes, Mr. Peterson?" Woody asked.

"Five beers here, Woody," Norm said, and gave Paul a shrug. "If something is gonna happen, might as well drink up while we can."

"Right," Paul said. "I'll have five beers too. Well...better make that two to start. No, three."

"Right away," Woody said, only to frown when the tap's nozzle fizzled loudly.

That's when Sam strode down the stairs from Melville's, carrying two folding metal chairs under each arm.

"There you go, Rebecca," he said, leaning them against the bannister. "This is all they had to spare."

"All they were willing to spare, you mean," Rebecca said irritably. "Look at this place! There are more people standing than sitting!"

"So, we're having a good day," Sam said. "What do you want from me?"

"Hey, Sam!" Woody called from the bar. "We need some fresh kegs hooked up over here!"

"I'm on it, Woody," Sam said, and smiled at Rebecca. "Sorry, hun, but duty calls. If you'll excuse me..."

The swap only took a few minutes, but the regulars were already getting antsy by the time Sam had finished.

"Here you go, Norm," Sam said, flipping and catching a frosted mug behind his back before smoothly sliding it under the tap. "One fresh beer coming right...up..."

"Sam..." Norm frowned. "I know it's St. Patrick's Day and everything, but purple beer? If you had to dye the stuff, shouldn't it be green?"

"Just wait a sec here, Norm. Let me try another," Sam said, grabbing a second mug.

"Blue!" Paul exclaimed.

"Eew, gross," Woody commented, peering at the blue beer over Sam's shoulder. "It looks like Windex. With bubbles."

Sam set his jaw and shook his head, trying the next two taps with similar results.

"Orange!" the regulars cried. "Red!"

"OK, I get it," Sam said, unable to hide his deep annoyance. "Yeah, very funny Gary! We're busier than we've ever been, and I'm stuck serving multi-colored beer..."

"Multi-flavored too," Norm said, sipping experimentally at the purple-tinted liquid. "This one's kinda...grapey. Hey, Paul. How much'll you give me to drink that blue one?"

"No, come on guys," Sam said, quickly moving the mugs out of reach. "I don't think you should be drinking this stuff until we know what Gary put in it."

"What makes you think it's Gary?" Al asked, still nursing a nearly full mug of untinted beer.

"Who else would it be?" Sam asked.

Al shrugged and took a deliberately long, slow sip of his beer.

Norm and Paul almost fell over the bar in their envy.

"And I'm telling you, he's not going to be here," Lilith's monotone voice pierced through the deafening chatter and live music. She and Frasier pushed and glared their way past the bar to stop at Norm's corner. "There, you see?" she said. "I was right."

"If you're looking for Cliffy, he's gone," Norm informed them, making sure Sam, Woody and Rebecca were busy with other customers before reaching over the bar to fill his old mug with some purple from the nearest tap.

Lilith and Frasier stared at the sudsy substance with identical looks of disgust.

"I may be woefully off base here," Frasier said. "And, please, correct me if I'm wrong... But, if one must consume artificially tinted beer on St. Patrick's Day, should that tint not be green?"

"Sam figures it's part of Gary's prank on us," Norm said once he'd drained the glass. "Ooh..." He winced, and burped a little. "Grape."

Lilith turned her head away, ostensibly in disgust, but Frasier could swear he saw her shoulders shake at least once in silent laughter.

"Yes, well..." Frasier said. "We came here tonight because we wanted to apologize. We both feel terrible about how we behaved. But, if Cliff's already left—"

"Oh, he didn't leave," Paul said, tentatively poking at the mug of blue-tinted beer, then licking his finger.

"What do you mean?" Lilith asked.

"He means, Cliff hasn't been in today," Norm told them. "He hasn't set foot in this bar since the night he had that breakdown. And he's sworn, before witnesses, that he'll never set foot in here again."

"Oh, Frasier, this is worse than we thought," Lilith said.

"I know," Frasier fretted. "So much of Cliff's identity was wrapped up in this bar. Why, his entire social world— What's that?" He tilted his head toward the door. "Did anyone hear that?"

"Frasier, honestly, who can hear anything over all this din," Lilith started, then frowned. "No, wait - there is something..."

"I think it's coming from the street," Frasier observed, trying (without much success) to edge toward the direction of the door.

Soon, other heads began to turn, then to rise. As the chatter and music slowly died down inside, the noises outside became clearer, louder.

"It sounds like voices," Rebecca said worriedly. "Raised voices."

"They're getting nearer," Sam said, moving to stick his head out the door. "Whatever this is, I think they're coming here."

"Sounds like a lot of people, Sam," Carla warned. "And, we're crammed in here like sardines as it is!"

"Let me just..." Sam climbed halfway up the stairs to the street, then halfway again before charging back down into the bar.

"It's Gary," he announced. "He's on his way, with about ten of his pals. And, I think Cliff's with them."

"Then, he really has gone to the dark side," Norm intoned, sadly shaking his head.

"OK, everyone, make room," Rebecca said, herding standing groups of patrons nearer to the walls as the door burst open and Gary's gang marched in, at least three of them holding a loudly protesting Cliff firmly by the arms.

"No, no, I told you guys, I'm not going back! I won't!" he cried, as the other men pushed and pulled and finally lifted him into the bar.

"Well played, Sam," Gary said, slapping his hands on the bar. "I gotta admit, you finally got me."

Sam shared a blank look with his friends, but shot a cocky smile at Gary.

"Oh yeah?" he hedged.

"This mailman of yours you sent in as a plant, pretending like you had some falling out," Gary said. "It took a while for me to catch on, but once I did..." He shook his head. "I gotta hand it to you guys. I didn't think you could do subtle. But this guy - he's like frickin' Kryptonite! Every time he opens his mouth, my business gets weaker and weaker." He glanced around the jam-packed bar. "Now, I can see where it went."

Gary set his jaw in frustration.

"So, here it is," he said. "We've come to surrender. We'll do whatever you want: kneel, grovel, sing with our pants around our legs! Just, please, take back the know-it-all!"

"Hey," Cliff protested, still struggling against his captors. "I don't have to take this! I'm an agent of the federal government! And, I know where you live, buddy-boy, so you better let go of me, right now!"

The men released him, and Cliff straightened his jacket with a huff.

"I don't need this," he mumbled into his collar as he headed for the door. "And I don't need any of you!"

"Cliff - wait!" Sam said, and moved out from behind the bar. "Just - just hold on a sec, there. Gary, I swear, I'd love to take credit for whatever's been going wrong at your bar, but I... I just can't." He looked up at Cliff, offering the stewing mailman a little smile. "Not when the whole thing was Cliff's idea!"

"What?" Cliff frowned suspiciously. "Sam, you know I never—"

"Now, now, don't be modest, pal," Sam said, jogging up to take Cliff by the shoulders and lead him back down to the bar. "Not when you've just, single-handedly pulled the greatest St. Patrick's Day fake-out in Cheers's recorded history. Isn't that right, guys?"

The Cheers regulars let out a cheer that was echoed by the crowd.

Cliff's hard expression began to soften.

"Yeah?"

"That's right," Sam said, draping his arm around Cliff's shoulders. "You know how long we've been longing to get one over on Gary. Well, it looks like you've finally done it, buddy. You're a hero!"

"Let's hear it for Cliffy," Norm said, raising a glass of purple high in the air. "Hip hip!"

"Hooray!" the rest of the bar cheered, all except for Gary and his friends.

"Hip hip," Norm prompted.

"Hooray!"

"Hip hip!"

"Hooray!"

As the cheers died down and the music and ordinary conversations started back up, the Cheers regulars gathered around Cliff, Frasier and Lilith offering competing apologies while the rest of them punched his shoulders and slapped him on the back. But, before Gary and his friends could slink away, Sam ran to the office for a camera so he could capture for posterity the image of his long-time rivals bowing and groveling on the floor.

"All right, all right, that's fair enough," Gary snapped churlishly, once the humiliating ritual was finally done with. "You won this round fair and square. But, seriously guys, that mailman of yours cost me enough business this week. Did you really have to spike our kegs with that multi-colored Kool-Aid crap too?"

Sam let that go as a parting shot, but as soon as Gary and his gang had gone, heads still hanging low, he turned to the others with his eyes wide.

"So, it's not just us," he said. "Gary's kegs have been spiked too."

"And, if he's not the one responsible..." Rebecca frowned.

"Then who is?" Carla demanded.

"Hey, you weenies," Al called over the bar, using the bulky, silver clicker to turn on the television in the back of the room. "Take a load of this!"

A news report was on, covering the story of what seemed to be a city-wide prank. Apparently, many bars in the central Boston area had tapped their kegs only to find them tinted with various flavored Kool-Aid powders.

"What's the good of this?" Norm demanded. "They still don't know who's responsible!"

Al laughed, and tilted his hat to a rakish angle.

"Did I ever tell you guys about my nephew?" he asked.

"What about him?" Paul asked, and several people groaned.

"He's got one of those companies, distributes, sells and refills beer kegs and the like," Al said. "Now, I may be an old man, but it wasn't too hard to figure out which kegs were going where...and dump some of that flavored drink powder into the empties about to be filled. Got on the news too."

He smirked, the rest of them staring as the old barfly started shuffling his way toward the door.

"Now that's a prank," he said, pulling on his coat. "See you around, you bunch of weenies."

As the door closed behind him, Sam shook his head in something like respect.

"Well," he said, and smiled at his friends. "Who knew?"

"Well, Sam," Cliff said, squeezing in to lean an elbow against the bar. "It's, eh, it's a little known fact that Kool-Aid actually—"

A roar of protest rose up from the crowd, and a shower of pretzels and beer nuts rained down on Cliff's head and shoulders.

Cliff ducked his head, and Norm rather guilty dropped the rest of his handful of pretzels back into the bowl.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, Cliffy. You OK?"

Cliff wiped his eyes, straightened his shoulders, and smiled.

"Nahmy, I'm better than OK," he said. "I'm home!"

The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so very long to finish this, but I hope you enjoyed my story!
> 
> Please Review! :)


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